Petrarchan Sonnet

Amidst the long sought after font of lore,
A spirit sweet and ripe as blossom’d flow’rs
Resides to fill the sun’s oft’-fleeting hours
While glist’ning waters of the spring outpour
Faint youth that’s free to dream, to love, adore.
Rich laughter rings from bluebells in the bow’rs
Whilst cherries drop from limbs before they sour.
Such saccharine youth ne’er dragged up on the shore.
Yet stems and leaves fall silent, quick to ash
As heavy blackouts fall to close the show.
Upon the flow’r who finds her fault to drowse
The sickle swift that deigns to show shall pass
While bearing no mercy, the blad cuts mis’ry and woe.
Unripe and rotten flow’rs collapse in bows.

--MRS 11/19/08